The bikini shoot

A few days later, Izzy returns to the Marcus and Joe home. She stands outside Marcus's door for a moment, shifting her weight from one bare foot to the other. The white t-shirt hangs loose on her frame, the fabric soft and worn, and the denim shorts ride up just slightly against her thighs. She raises her hand, knuckles hovering over the wood, then knocks twice, quick and nervous.

The door opens a few seconds later. Marcus stands there in a faded band tee and sweatpants, phone in hand. He blinks, registering her outfit, then offers a small, knowing smile.

"Didn't expect you to actually show up," he says, stepping aside to let her in. "Thought you might've chickened out."

Izzy steps past him, glancing around his room. It's tidy, a proper camera setup on a desk in the corner — a DSLR, some softbox lights folded against the wall, a tripod. She turns back to him, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the t-shirt.

"I almost did," she admits, a shy laugh escaping her. "But Joe texted me this morning asking if I had anything new. He's been checking his phone like a nervous puppy. I can't disappoint him."

Marcus leans against his desk, crossing his arms. "So this is what you want to shoot in? T-shirt and shorts? That's a whole different vibe from the pink dress."